Pseudonyms
by Cee-face
Summary: Names and luck were both a bit like a double-edged sword. It was hard to say when either would start to work against you. -England/China, 1920s AU.-


These streets weren't the kindest of places. Any Dick or Jane that happened to hazard by the wrong dark corner might find themselves six feet under and in the obituaries the next day. But of course, any Dick or Jane were players of a roulette; they might die, but they might not, if they were lucky.

However, luck was a fickle, subjective thing.

If your family name had a reputation as long as its hit list, you were only running on the luck that you borrowed from the people you bumped off. And that was like picking up an unfamiliar gun from the street; you'd never know when it would run out of juice.

"You."

The well-dressed gentleman paused, turning and tipping his hat to his addressor. "Evening," he greeted nonchalantly.

Tawny irises narrowed to suspicious slits beneath the veil of the shadows. "What is your business here, aru?"

"My name's Thomas Wade," answered the taller. "Just passing through, sir."

"Thomas Wade?" The ponytailed man parroted skeptically, glancing between the two slant-eyed goons that flanked him. Their gazes betrayed no emotion - nothing except bare, silent consideration of their trespasser. "Well, Mister Wade," he started, a hand in the pocket of his slacks. He snapped the fingers of his opposite, and both of the other men moved forward.

The blond backpedaled, bowing his head as the pair approached. They each seized him under one arm, fixing him for the predatory advancement of their leader.

"I wouldn't expect someone such as Thomas Wade to know the importance of a name around here, ahen," the frigid man murmured, flippantly understating the iron truth of the city for the benefit of his guest. The grips around both of his arms tightened in the pause that followed the remark. "But only someone who does know would bother giving a name before being asked for one."

He bit back a curse as he felt a hand at the brim of his bowler. "And you would know the significance very well, ahen." There was an iciness brought about from distaste in those words, and they fell to a volume used only for secret dealings and sweet nothings, "Don't you, Kirkland?"

As the hat came away from his head, he thrust the heel of one sleek dress shoe into the abdomen of the boss in front of him. The Asian doubled over with a strangled hiss, and while his right-hand men were distracted, the Englishman forcefully snatched back custody of his arms before using them to cave in each respective mobster's face with a pair of resounding cracks.

Their leader swore in Chinese (though he only knew it to be Chinese because he knew very well who this man was), but he was long gone by the time the trio gathered their wits, two broken noses and a bruised ribcage in his wake.

Once he could bear to find his posture again, the boss snorted, scooping up the black bowler that had fallen in action. "Arthur Kirkland," grumbled the Oriental, twirling the accessory around one finger and watching as the green accent came to life against the black in the scattered rays of sunlight. "Kiku, Jia Long."

His faithful soldiers looked to him, though each cradled a hand against their respective bloodied faces. "Go see Xiao Mei and get fixed up, aru. We'll be ready next time a Kirkland crosses our path."

The smell of liquor hung thick in the stale air of the speakeasy. Conversation never rose above a muffled buzz, smothered by the constant need to glance over one's shoulder and tuck away whatever illicit dealings were being done. Sluggish jazz and alcohol kept the clock ticking, the only indication that time even passed in this little corner isolated from the sleazy outside.

"-so I said, 'hey, you know that Ethel over there has been eyeing you', and he gives me all this crap- '_Mon Dieu,_ such a doll could not possibly be a man!' And I just _laugh_, because I know what's coming next…"

Arthur cast a look towards the booth that seemed to surpass all of the others in volume. A light-haired man gestured wildly around his half-full mug of beer to some Latino fellow, who nodded obliviously at every twist and turn of the man's tale. Neither seemed to be aware that everyone within sneezing distance was tuning into their conversation.

"So I tell him, 'don't take any wooden nickels', but he swaggers on up to the guy anyways, all 'cash or check, _mon amour?_' and the guy gets this look of disgust, fucking _hilarious_, and you wouldn't think that a chink would know what that means- but he just goes 'bank's closed', _mein Gott_, you should have _been_ there, 'Tonio! Totally slapped him with the icy mitt! It was _gold_!"

A movement in Arthur's peripheral caught his attention. Someone at the opposite end of the counter was flagging down the bartender. Hardly an unusual thing, in and of itself. What _was _a tad bit unusual was the absurdly expensive-looking silk brocade spilling off the customer's body in gleaming waves, beaconing the very clear message of "I can afford this, you can't".

His gaze meandered to the face of whoever this ritzy person was, and he found it curtained by shimmering black-brown hair, face set in weary annoyance at the world. Easterner. That explained the abundance of expensive fabric.

"Oi," Arthur said as the barkeep passed him, drink in hand. The man turned a smiling face on the Briton.

Arthur jerked his head in the direction of his lone companion seated at the bar itself. "That one's on me."

"_Da_, of course," the towering employee said before continuing on his way.

Arthur didn't watch the reaction his act of charity garnered, returning easily to his liquor and his thoughts. A dangerous thing to do, sometimes, when you had an edge about you, but Arthur wasn't looking for recreation when he came to these places alone.

It hadn't been a good week. Matthew was nowhere to be found after his delivery to Bonnefoy. Alfred was on the case, but he couldn't dig up hair nor hide of his timid brother. Peter was starting to get inquisitive about things, and when even a child could tell something was off, that didn't speak well for what the rest of the world could see. Vargas seemed testier than usual, as well; Vargas was not a man on whose bad side you wanted to be. Not even to mention the disastrous run-in with-

"Excuse me."

The Englishman directed his gaze to the presence at his side. It was Silks, apparently deciding to grace him with her presence.

She slipped into the stool to the right of his, turning her tired face profile to him. The weariness didn't really suit her; it weighed her down with the age of centuries, as if she had the world on her shoulders and had been keeping it there for quite a while. The dim light of the speakeasy didn't much flatter her either, but fatigue and setting aside, she was still more elegant than most other women he had seen. And from the lack of makeup, she wasn't even trying. Those flour lovers would roll in their munitions if they knew a dame like this was within kissing distance of the men they pined for.

"You bought me a drink," remarked the woman curtly.

"I did," he confirmed, sipping from his own glass. "Buying an attractive woman a drink in a bar isn't permitted anymore?"

A sardonic smile pulled the corners of her dusty pink lips. "What a way to talk to a woman, aru. You are not much of a charmer."

Arthur tried not to choke on his liquor. He held his glass to his face a bit longer than necessary, pretending to take a swig while his mind reeled. He wasn't sure which hit him harder - the fact that Silks was a man, or the fact that Silks was a man he was acquainted on terms that were less than "good".

"Apologies," he mumbled, clearing his throat of the stray alcohol that had spilled into his windpipe in his alarm. "You didn't seem the type that would continue speaking to me regardless of what I said. I suppose I was mistaken."

"Learn not to judge a book by its cover, aru," instructed the Asian, slipping the drink from Arthur's hand to take a sip, entirely uncaring of the rightful ownership of the beverage. "You seem troubled. Care to 'level with me', aru?"

The blond confidently took the mug back, to a look from his companion that may have been impressed. "I could say the same to you, Miss," replied Arthur, swirling the liquid around in its container and sincerely regretting the fact that the buzz was starting to seep into his judgmental abilities.

The Chinese raised an arm to catch the bartender again, setting an elbow on the counter and propping his chin in his hand. "You certainly know your way around words, aru," he commented in a lilting voice, "or perhaps it is just your accent that makes it seem so."

"It's a possibility," conceded Arthur, staring at the waxy ring left on the counter from the condensation on his mug and hoping that his dear friend didn't find anything familiar in his manner of voice. What a situation. Half-drunk and faced with one of the biggest enemies to his family, and he wasn't even sure if his identity was compromised or not. "Shakespeare was English, after all."

"Perhaps his blood runs in yours, aru." With the suggestion came a coy glance up at Arthur through long eyelashes and a tiny smile. The question spilled out in a smooth voice. "What's your name?"

"Charles Gordon," answered Arthur quickly, lifting his cup to veil his face with it. Last time he'd given a name to this man, it hadn't ended well.

"Charles Gordon?" repeated the mob boss quietly in a tone of voice that made Arthur struggle not to shudder. He said the alias again, repeating it twice more before adding, "That sounds familiar to me, aru."

Arthur rolled his shoulders in a shrug, and at that moment hoped that his companion hadn't noticed the lack of eye contact that came with this conversation. "It's not that spectacular of a name. Perhaps you've met someone else with it before."

The effeminate man at his right laughed, setting a slender hand on his shoulder. He tensed before he could reel in control of his muscles. The Oriental entered the corner of his vision, the weight of the smaller man's chest pressing against his arm as he leaned in to whisper into Arthur's ear. "Well, I wouldn't expect you to know the importance of a name around here, aru."

The Briton swallowed as pale fingers walked their way underneath his chin and gently coaxed him into facing his drinking partner. Lips met his - when he closed his eyes, they were soft enough for him to wonder if they really belonged to a male. But perhaps that was just his brain trying to distract him from the very troubling fact of the matter, which was that he was kissing a man who wanted him dead.

When they parted, a finger swiped over his lips, prompting him to open his eyes. He was met with the sight of the other mobster standing and readjusting his silks. "You may call me Yao." He smiled, turning away and raising a hand in acknowledgment. "Perhaps we will meet again. Thank you for the drink, aru."

With that, Yao took his leave from the speakeasy, and Arthur's overworked heart relaxed in the sigh that bubbled over out of his lungs. He downed the rest of his alcohol in one fell swoop, setting the glass carelessly back onto the counter. Not five minutes later, the husky barkeep approached, a quizzical look on his face and a fruity-looking concoction in his hand. "She is gone?" he queried, looking down to Arthur.

The gentlemanly boss peered up at the tender's childish countenance. "Yes," he confirmed, hiding a note of relief. He looked towards the drink briefly. A sigh in resignation followed the realization. "It's on me."

A smile graced the employee's face as he set it on the bar before Arthur, but the smile morphed to a look of surprise and remembrance as he no doubt recalled something. "Ah." He bent to rummage on the shelves beneath the bar, his voice floating out from amongst the noise. "She also requested I give something to you."

He emerged with an object in hand and set it in front of Arthur, next to the bright crimson drink that Yao had so kindly ordered for him. His green eyes went wide in their sockets at the sight of his bowler, resting unassumingly atop the counter as if it belonged there. "It is yours, _da?_"

"Da- I mean," sputtered the shaken man, whipping around to eye the entrance of the establishment for any sign of Yao's laughing face. "Yes. Yes, it is. Um…" He swallowed, spinning back on the stool to take the bowler in hand and replace it atop his head. "Thank you. I'm…afraid I have to be going now, so-" Arthur peeked down at the beverage while he set his payment on the counter for the taller man to take. "Give it to whoever comes along next. Have a good night."

He tipped his newly-reacquired hat to the other blond, who gave that childish smile of his when he nodded his good-bye to Arthur.

The Englishman took his coat off the hook on his way out, donning it hurriedly as he brusquely covered the distance of the street. He needed to restock on ammunition.

He wasn't sure how much luck he had left.

* * *

**Notes:** Ethel - an effeminate man  
doll - an attractive woman  
"don't take any wooden nickels" - don't do anything stupid  
"cash or check?" - "do we kiss now or later?"  
"bank's closed" - no kissing or making out  
icy mitt - rejection  
flour lovers - girls with too much face powder  
munitions - make-up  
chink - derogatory slang for someone of Chinese/East Asian descent

Sir Thomas Wade - first professor of Chinese at Cambridge University, British diplomat.  
Charles George Gordon - British army officer known for his campaigns in China and northern Africa.

Jia Long - Hong Kong  
Xiao Mei - Taiwan

...this...is what happens when i listen to the Baccano! soundtrack too long. siiiigh, my thirst for jazz-age 20s mobsters will never be quenched ): also crossposted to the kouchagumi comm on LJ.


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